That night, I sat on the edge of my bed with my laptop balanced on my knees. The apartment was quiet. The fridge hummed. A siren wailed somewhere far away. I typed "bartending jobs Meatpacking District" into the search bar and scrolled through the results.

Three places were hiring. I applied to all of them.

A lounge called Lumen called me back the next morning. The manager, a tired-looking woman named Gina, asked if I had experience. I told her I'd bartended through college. She asked when I could start. I said tomorrow.

"Late shift," she said. "Nine to two. Four nights a week. Cash tips plus hourly."

"Perfect," I said.

I started two days later.

The routine was simple. I left Pinnacle at six, took the subway downtown, changed into a black top in the Lumen bathroom, and poured drinks until two in the morning. Then I took a cab home, slept four hours, showered, and walked back into Adonis's office by eight with his coffee and his schedule.

No one noticed. No one asked why I looked tired. People in New York always look tired.

On Saturday, I went to Memorial Sloan Kettering for my first chemotherapy session. The infusion room was bright and cold. There were six chairs in a row, separated by thin curtains. A nurse named Patty found my vein on the first try and hooked up the IV. The bag hung above me, clear liquid dripping slow and steady into my arm.

I sat there for three hours. My phone buzzed every fifteen minutes. Adonis's emails. Calendar changes. A request for a revised seating chart for some investor dinner.

I answered every one. My fingers moved across the screen while the poison moved through my blood. At one point, Patty glanced at my phone and raised an eyebrow.

"Work," I said.

She shook her head. "Honey, you're allowed to rest."

I smiled at her. The small, automatic smile I had perfected over the years. "I'm fine."

I wasn't fine. The nausea hit me on the cab ride home. I made it to my bathroom just in time. I knelt on the tile floor and threw up until there was nothing left. Then I brushed my teeth, drank a glass of water, and went to bed.

Monday morning, I was back at my desk.

---

On Wednesday, Adonis called me into his office. He was standing by the window with his back to me. Haisley sat on the leather sofa, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone.

"Sit down," he said without turning around.

I sat.

"Haisley and I have an anniversary coming up," he said. He turned to face me. His expression was flat. Controlled. "I want you to coordinate a dinner. Private room at Le Bernardin. Flowers. Candles. The full thing."

"Of course," I said. I opened my notebook.

"And a card," he added. His eyes locked onto mine. "Handwritten. In your handwriting."

I looked up. "My handwriting?"

"Haisley prefers a personal touch." His voice was smooth and deliberate. "Write something warm. Romantic. You can manage that, can't you?"

The room was very quiet. Haisley had stopped scrolling. She was watching me with those sharp, careful eyes.

I held his gaze. "What would you like it to say?"

He tilted his head slightly. "Use your imagination."

I wrote the card that afternoon at my desk. I picked a cream-colored card from the stationery drawer and uncapped a pen. My hand was steady. I made sure of it.

*To Haisley — You make every room brighter. Here's to many more. — Adonis*

I stared at the words. My own handwriting, forming someone else's love. I slid the card into an envelope and sealed it.

That night at Lumen, I poured a double bourbon for a man in a gray suit who didn't look at me once. I set it on the bar and wiped down the counter. The music was loud. The lights were low. I poured myself a glass of water and drank it slowly.

I didn't think about the card. I didn't think about Adonis's voice saying *use your imagination*. I didn't think about how his jaw had tightened when I didn't flinch.

Or I tried not to.

The bourbon man left a twenty-dollar tip. I folded it into my apron and moved on to the next order.

---

Friday afternoon, I walked out of the Pinnacle building at six o'clock. The air was warm. The sidewalk was crowded with people heading home or heading out. I pulled my bag higher on my shoulder and turned toward the subway.

"SI!"

The voice hit me like sunlight. Loud, bright, and completely uncontainable. I spun around.

Kylian Robinson was standing on the sidewalk with his arms wide open and a grin that took up his entire face. He was taller than the last time I'd seen him. Broader in the shoulders. But the grin was the same — the same one he'd had at fourteen when he won his first local tournament and called me from the gaming café, shouting so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

He crossed the distance in three steps and lifted me clean off the ground.

"Kylian!" I gasped. "Put me down, you're going to break my —"

"You weigh nothing," he said, squeezing me tighter. "Have you been eating? You look skinny. Are you eating?"

He set me down and held me at arm's length, studying my face with the earnest concern of someone who had never learned to hide what he felt.

"I'm eating," I said. "What are you doing here? I thought you had qualifiers in Dallas."

"Break week," he said. He threw an arm around my shoulders and started walking, pulling me along. "Three days off before the next bracket. I took the first flight out. I wanted to see you. Also, Si, you will not believe what happened at regionals —"

And he was off. Talking at full speed about his team's draft strategy and a clutch play he made in the semifinal and how his coach said he had the best reaction time in the league. His voice bounced off the buildings. People on the sidewalk turned to look at us.

I laughed. A real laugh. It came up from somewhere deep in my chest, somewhere I had forgotten existed. It felt strange in my throat, like a muscle I hadn't used in weeks. Kylian heard it and grinned wider.

"There she is," he said. "I knew you were in there somewhere."

He pulled me closer and pressed his cheek against the top of my head. It was the easy, unthinking affection of someone who had grown up trusting me completely. I closed my eyes for half a second and let myself feel it.

Two floors above us, behind the tinted glass of his corner office, Adonis Hunter stood at the window.

I didn't know he was there. I didn't see his hand tighten around his phone until the case creaked. I didn't see the way his body went perfectly, dangerously still — no movement, no expression, just that focused quiet his staff had learned to read as the signal to leave the room.

He watched Kylian's arm around my shoulders. He watched the boy lean his head against mine. He heard nothing — the glass was too thick — but he saw my mouth open in laughter, and something behind his eyes shifted.

He didn't recognize Kylian. He didn't see the fourteen-year-old kid we'd once taken to his first esports camp together, pooling our grocery money to cover the registration fee. He saw a young man. Tall. Confident. Touching me like he had every right to.

He saw the nickname on Kylian's lips — *Si* — a name no one else used.

Adonis stood at that window for a long time after we disappeared around the corner. Marcus Vega knocked twice. Adonis didn't answer. Marcus opened the door, saw his boss's face, and quietly closed it again.

Two days later, my bones ached from the late shift at Lumen. The chemo was still humming in my veins, making my stomach roll with constant, low-grade nausea. I poured Adonis's black coffee and carried it into his glass-walled office.

He was already at his desk, staring out the window. I set the mug down next to a thick, leather-bound folder. The bold letters on the cover caught my eye. *Acquisition: Apex Esports Organization*.

I blinked. Apex was Kylian's team. I didn't think much of it. A tech mogul buying a gaming company wasn't unusual. It was just business.

An hour later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I stepped into the empty breakroom and answered.

"Si, I'm dying," Kylian groaned. He sounded exhausted.

"What happened?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

"Management changed. Some new investor bought a controlling stake yesterday. They just handed us a new schedule. It's brutal, Si. Three time zones in two weeks. Tokyo, Berlin, then L.A. Back-to-back qualifiers. I won't have a free day until November."

I frowned. "That's awful. But you wanted to play in the big leagues."

"Yeah, but this is a meat grinder," he complained. "I won't even have time to call you. If I'm not playing, I'll be sleeping on a plane."

"Just focus on the games," I said softly. "I'll be here when you get back."

I hung up. I looked through the glass walls of the breakroom. Adonis was standing by his desk. He was looking right at me. His face was perfectly blank. Cold. He tapped a silver pen against the Apex file. A chill ran down my spine. But I brushed it off. It had to be a coincidence.

On Friday, Adonis scheduled a team lunch at a high-end steakhouse in Midtown.

The restaurant was dark and loud. It smelled like roasted garlic, seared meat, and expensive red wine. The heavy scents hit the back of my throat, making my stomach churn. I swallowed hard and focused on breathing through my mouth.

Adonis sat at the head of the large leather booth. He made me sit on his immediate right. He placed Haisley right next to me. Marcus Vega and three vice presidents filled the rest of the table.

The conversation was strictly business. Algorithms. Profit margins. Quarter-three projections. I kept my eyes on my plate. I pushed a piece of asparagus around with my fork. I was so tired.

Suddenly, the table went quiet. Adonis leaned back in his chair. He swirled the dark wine in his glass. His eyes locked onto me.

"Sierra," he said.

His voice was smooth, but it cut through the room like a blade.

I looked up. "Yes, Mr. Hunter?"

He reached over and placed his hand over Haisley's. She didn't flinch, but her fingers stayed stiff under his palm.

"I need a recommendation," he said. The temperature in his voice dropped to freezing. "I'm looking for a jeweler for an engagement ring. Since you seem to have good taste in things that don't belong to you, I thought you might know a place."

The silence in the booth became suffocating. Marcus stared down at his water glass. One of the VPs shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Under the table, my hands curled into tight fists. My nails bit into my palms until they ached. The heat rushed to my chest. He wanted me to break. He wanted me to cry in front of his executives. He wanted to see the regret bleed out of me.

I took a slow, shallow breath. I kept my face perfectly still.

"Of course," I said evenly. "Cartier on Fifth Avenue offers excellent bespoke services. Their custom pieces usually start around fifty thousand. If you prefer vintage cuts, Fred Leighton on Madison is exceptional. I can arrange a private viewing for you and Ms. Garcia this afternoon."

I didn't blink. I didn't look away.

Adonis's jaw tightened. A muscle leaped in his cheek. His dark eyes burned into mine. He hated my answer. He hated my calm voice. He hated that I didn't shatter for him.

Beside me, Haisley picked up her water glass. She took a long, slow sip. She didn't look at Adonis. She just watched the ice clink against the crystal.

When lunch finally ended, the executives stood up to leave. I excused myself and walked quickly to the restroom. I needed a minute. My stomach was twisting into painful, sharp knots.

I pushed through the heavy oak door. The bathroom was empty. It was quiet, with marble sinks and soft, warm lighting. I walked over to the counter and gripped the cool stone edge. I closed my eyes and breathed through the nausea.

The door opened. Heels clicked sharply against the tile.

I opened my eyes. Haisley walked over to the sink next to mine. She set her designer clutch on the counter. She didn't offer me a sympathetic smile. She wasn't that kind of woman.

She turned on the tap and washed her hands.

"You know," she said, almost idly. "For a man who is supposedly madly in love with me, he's remarkably hands-off."

I froze. I looked at her in the mirror.

She pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and patted her hands dry. "He hasn't kissed me once. Not even for the cameras. Not even when the paparazzi are practically sitting on our laps."

My heart gave a strange, hard thump. "I don't see how that is my business, Ms. Garcia."

"Call me Haisley," she said. She pulled a tube of red lipstick from her clutch. "And I'm just making an observation. It's professionally inconvenient for me. It makes the whole 'swept off our feet' narrative very hard to sell to the press."

She applied the lipstick with practiced precision. She popped her lips together. Then, she met my eyes in the mirror. She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow.

It wasn't a complaint. It was a hint. A massive, glaring hint.

She dropped the lipstick back into her clutch and snapped it shut. "Have a good afternoon, Sierra."

She walked out. The heavy door swung shut behind her.

I stood there alone. The silence rushed back into the room. I stared at my reflection. My skin was pale. There were dark circles under my eyes. I looked sick. I looked like a ghost of the girl Adonis used to love.

*He hasn't kissed me once.*

I pressed my fingertips hard against my collarbone. I couldn't let myself hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope would make the dying hurt more. But as I stood under the harsh bathroom lights, a tiny, stubborn spark ignited in my chest. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't put it out.

I survived Monday. I survived Tuesday and Wednesday. By Thursday night, my body was giving up. The chemo was a slow, toxic burn in my veins. It made my skin pale, my joints ache, and my stomach roll with constant nausea. I stood behind the bar at Lumen, wiping down the sticky wood with a damp rag. The heavy bass from the speakers vibrated right into my teeth. It was 1:00 AM. One hour left.

A man in a rumpled gray suit slammed his empty glass on the counter. “Another.”

“We're doing last call,” I said. My voice was raspy and weak.

“I said, another.” He leaned over the bar. He smelled like sour gin and stale sweat.

“I can get you some water,” I offered, turning away to grab a clean glass.

His hand shot out. His thick fingers clamped around my wrist. He squeezed hard. A sharp pain shot up my arm.

“Hey,” I gasped. I tried to pull back. I didn't have the strength. The poison in my blood had stripped my muscles bare. I felt incredibly fragile, like my bones were made of glass.

“Don't walk away from me, sweetheart,” he slurred. He yanked my arm, pulling my chest hard against the edge of the wet wood. “I'm talking to you.”

I opened my mouth to shout for Gina.

Before the sound left my throat, a tall shadow fell over the counter.

A large hand grabbed the back of the man's collar. The grip was violent. The man was yanked backward so fast his shoes slipped on the dirty floor. My wrist was instantly free. I stumbled back against the liquor display, clutching my arm to my chest.

I looked up. My breath stopped.

Adonis.

He wore a long, dark wool coat. His jaw was locked so tight the muscle twitched. He didn't say a single word. He just pulled his arm back and drove his fist directly into the man's face.

The wet crack of bone echoed over the loud music. The man crumpled to the floor like a broken doll. Dark blood immediately pooled on the tiles.

The lounge went dead silent. The music kept thumping, but nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

Adonis stood over the man. His broad chest heaved up and down. He flexed his right hand. His knuckles were split and bleeding. Then, he slowly turned his head and looked at me.

I froze. I didn't have my armor on. I didn't have my polite assistant smile or my blank, professional stare. I was just Sierra. Sick, exhausted, and barely holding on. I leaned heavily against the back counter. My hands shook uncontrollably.

Adonis's eyes swept over me. He looked at the hollows of my cheeks. He looked at my pale skin and the dark, bruised bags under my eyes. A strange, sharp flicker crossed his face. It wasn't anger. It looked like pure panic. He didn't understand why I looked like a ghost. He just knew I was fading.

“Get your coat,” he ordered. His voice was low and rough.

I swallowed hard. “Adonis, I'm working.”

“Now.”

I didn't argue. I didn't have the energy to fight him. I walked slowly to the back room and grabbed my jacket. When I came out, he grabbed my arm. His touch was warm, and it burned right through my sleeve. He pulled me out the back door and into the freezing alley.

A sleek black car sat idling at the curb. The driver scrambled out to open the back door. Adonis practically shoved me inside, then climbed in beside me. The heavy door slammed shut. The silence in the car was thick and suffocating.

I huddled into the far corner of the cold leather seat. I rubbed my sore wrist.

Adonis stared straight ahead. The streetlights flashed across his face in rapid bursts. He was breathing hard, like he had just run a mile.

“Four days,” he said suddenly. He didn't look at me. “My security team told me you've been coming here for four days. I sat in my office and thought it was a mistake.”

I looked down at my lap. “It's a second job.”

He finally turned to me. His dark eyes were wild and furious. “A second job? You work for me. I pay you enough to live comfortably. Why the hell are you pouring drinks in a dive bar until two in the morning?”

“I need the money,” I whispered.

“For what?” he snapped, leaning closer. “What could you possibly need money for?”

*To survive.* The words sat on the tip of my tongue. *To buy a little more time.* But I couldn't say it. If I told him I had cancer, he would pity me. He would feel obligated to help. It wouldn't be real.

“That's my business,” I said quietly.

Adonis let out a harsh, bitter laugh. He leaned into my space. His scent—cedar and cold winter air—wrapped around me. I wanted to lean forward. I wanted to close my eyes and rest my heavy head on his chest.

“Two hundred thousand,” he said.

I blinked. “What?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars,” he repeated. His voice shook slightly. He was trying to sound cold and commanding, but the raw desperation bled right through the cracks. “A month.”

I stared at him in the dark. “For what?”

“For you.” His eyes dropped to my lips, then snapped back up to my eyes. “You quit the bar. You quit any other side work. You move into my penthouse.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “You want me to be your...”

“My kept woman,” he finished harshly. “A transaction. You need money. I have it. You belong to me. Exclusively.”

He was punishing me. He was reducing me to the gold-digger I pretended to be seven years ago. He wanted to own me, to control me, because he didn't know how to just ask me to stay.

I looked away. Two hundred thousand a month. It would cover the aggressive chemo. It would cover the hospital stays and the medications. I wouldn't have to worry about the medical bills piling up on my kitchen counter.

And I would be with him. I would sleep under his roof. I would breathe his air. It was a degrading offer. It should have made me furious. But all I felt was a tragic, broken kind of relief. I was dying. Pride didn't matter anymore.

“Okay,” I said softly.

Adonis froze. He had expected me to fight. He wanted me to scream and slap him. He wanted me to prove I wasn't the girl who only cared about money.

“You agree?” he asked. His voice was barely a whisper. The victory sounded like ash in his mouth.

“Yes,” I said evenly. “I accept the terms.”

I turned my head and looked out the window. The city blurred past us in streaks of neon light. I didn't want him to see my face. I didn't want him to see the tears welling in my eyes. I pressed my fingertips against my collarbone and held my breath.

Beside me, Adonis shifted. He didn't say another word. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw him look down at his bleeding hand. He looked like a man who had just won a war, only to realize he had destroyed his own home.